No Going Back Now
by GenevieveDusquesne
Summary: Phantom of the Opera fanfic. First thing I've ever written for this site. Erik is now living in his own apartment instead of the Opera House, and he meets a new girl...basically, Erik's reawakening to the good things of the world. Rated M for now becau
1. Thoughts

I sometimes think over what I did wrong. All the things which could have made Christine love me had I not done them. And then a strange anger will pass over me, anger at the fact that, no matter what I did, what it all came down to in the end was my face. Why was I cursed in this way? Why can't people ever see beyond the physical flaws of another human?

All I needed was one person. All I needed was _Christine _to show me some compassion and affection, the things I had never had as a child. I came to her as her angel and expected to seduce her in that manner. Until _Raoul_ came. Her childhood love. Her husband. I suppose I must accept that now. But I don't want to.

What do I regret doing most? This one incident:

When she interrupted my organ-playing and pulled my mask off. Part of me dies over my reaction every day. _You had her, _I think. _She could have loved you, if you didn't lash out at her curiosity like you did. You scared her away._

I also sometimes regret killing Joseph Buquet. That made her think I was a complete menace.

But then I think of the things he _said _about me! Telling those little ballet rats all of those horrible things. I am not a demon, I am not the devil's child. I refuse to be. I suppose I could have had my revenge in other ways-- such as the small things I did to Carlotta… all those many, many times. I think to those instances sometimes and laugh.

Still… the murder certainly accounted for her not coming to me for lessons anymore. And for running to Raoul for his 'comfort'. His comfort. Ha. _I _never used her as a pawn to capture a supposed murdering menace. Menace… when all had been trying to do from the very beginning was advance her career.

Her career. Ha! _What _career? Two performances as Prima Donna, and then she leaves to marry Raoul. It was not what I had planned. She had a voice like an angel. An angel I thought was mine so many times. When I took her to my lair and we slept in the same bed. When I followed her to the graveyard. During _Don Juan… my _opera. Past the Point of No Return. When she kissed me… but after that I realized that she really loved Raoul. And nothing a monster like I could do could ever change that. I had done things unforgivable to her, and Raoul had not.

Was it wrong of me to threaten Raoul? Christine had said she hated me. Yet she still_ kissed _me. Now I know what that feels like. Like torture, to have that sort of intimacy with someone who will never be mine. Who could never love me.

So I had to let them go.

After she went away with Raoul, I left the opera house, with all the money I had saved from my salaries. I moved to a small Paris flat. It was hard to go, to leave everything behind… the organ, the wedding dress. But I had no choice. I did buy a second-hand organ about a month ago-- but I have not yet played it. I do not have the heart. Christine was my muse. She was the one who helped me play my music as I did. So the organ has gone unused, and I do not know if I shall ever play it.

The section of Paris in which I have made my home is not a quiet one. My building is at the intersection of two major roads, and consequently it attracts poor street performers hoping to earn a few francs for usually mediocre performances. I can hear them if the wind is right, which it usually is. There is one who is especially good. She is a young flutist, fairly pretty. I have walked by her on the streets sometimes. I do not know if she has every noticed me. She usually seems absorbed in her playing. If she looked up, it would be hard not to notice me. I no longer wear my mask, so my deformities would be easy to spot. I am tired of masks. If people wish to judge me by my face, I let them. Now everyone will know who I am: one of the walking wounded. The deformed. Those who have never been shown love.

Those who want it more than anything.


	2. Bastille Day

Disclaimer (yeah, I forgot it for chapter one, so Andrew Lloyd Webber's probably going to murder me in my sleep, but oh well): I do not own the Phantom, Christine, Raoul, or anyone else in the original work, and I didn't think I did when I wrote my first chapter either. I do own my flutist girl, and I guess Fred and Tom, though why I would want to take responsibility for _those_ two I don't quite know.

There was a parade on the Champs-Elysees today, so I did not venture outside during the afternoon as usual. Instead I opted for nine at night, when the heat of the Paris summer has disappeared and and the people who will look for any excuse to get drunk off their asses were tucked away in the caverns of lunacy commonly known as bars. That is what the less-dangerous among these revelers do, at least. Those who find their pleasure in parties and drinking. Those who are already drunk and find their pleasures in... other things... will leave their lairs when the sun falls and prey upon unsuspecting girls.

This is what I witnessed as I followed two such men up the Champs-Elysees that night. I was hidden by the night and by my cloak. They were as obvious as a white rabbit in a coal mine with their staggering walks and slurred obscenities and clothing in the blue, white, and red of the French flag. And they were eager to fulfill their sexual desires.

They stopped in front of the flutist. I moved behind one of the small trees lining the sidewalk. It would serve as enough cover for the present.

I could see her putting her instrument away, utterly oblivious to the two heavyset-yet-heavily-muscled men standing before her.

When she finally finished, she looked up. "Ah," she said. "Would you like to hear a song? I've just packed up, but I could take the instrument out again if you'd be willing to pay."

"We'd love to 'ear a song, missie," said the bigger of the two men with a chuckle. He wore a red scarf around his neck. His hair was long and unruly just as Buquet's had been.

"Yeah, but we'll be the only ones usin' our instruments!" joked the second man as he poked the first one in the ribs. This one had a round, ruddy face and was missing a few teeth. He and the first man laughed uproariously together at the joke.

_They're_ English, I thought. _No wonder they're a couple of undignified stooges._

"I'm afraid I do not know what you mean," the girl said. "I'm no prostitute."

"I'm sure you could make a better livin' as one than you could wit' yer _music_," the first man taunted.

"I realize that," she said. "But the music is my calling. Now ask me no more questions. I need to be going- home."

"Not so fast, missie," the second man said, grabbing her arm. His hands were massive, and she was so small. She looked at him with an expression of shock and horror. "We've come all the way from London to experience the city of love, and we aren't leavin' until we get some. So you are coming back to our 'otel with us whether you loik it or not."

"Whoi d'we need the 'otel, Fred?" the first man asked his companion. "We got the 'ole empty street roight 'ere."

"You're _roight,_ Tom, we do," Fred said. He laughed, then adressed the girl again. "Guess we don't 'ave to take you anywhere anyway. Aren't _you_ the lucky one?"

"No," she said. "Go away or I'll scream."

"That's all quoite good," Tom said. "Only problem is, no one can 'ear you!"

_That's what _you _think, _I thought. I remembered the look of terror on Christine's face when I brought her to my lair after_ Don Juan_. 'Pity comes too late, turn around and face your fate, an eternity of _this_ before your eyes...' Why couldn't I control these impulses? Why couldn't I have let her have her Raoul and be happy? Instead I terrified her-- just as these two menacing Englishmen were threatening this poor girl.

I could not let another person feel that sort of fear. I unsheathed my sword. "Leave her alone, " I growled to them. They jumped back in surprise.

"Who the bloody 'ell are you?" Fred exclaimed. Then he noticed my weapon. "'Ey! Is that thing _real_?"

"Yes, and I have killed before, Messieurs. I will not hesitate to kill again, especially now that I have a clear reason to-"

"Oi don't believe you," Fred said dismissivly. "Tom, grab the goil and let's go." He began to walk away, but Tom simply stared at me. "Tom?" Fred asked when he noticed his friend wasn't following him. "'Ey, Tom, what's the matter wit' you?"

"Oi believe 'im," Tom stammered as he stared at me.

"Whoi? He's the biggest faker Oi've ever seen!"

"You 'aven't looked at 'is face!"

Fred's gaze moved slowly upward until it connected with where my mask used to sit. The sunken, scarred cheek and deformed nose stared back at him, perhaps all the more terrifying in the moonlight of a Paris Bastille night.

"Bloody fuckin' 'ell..." Fred squealed. Oi'm leavin' now Oi am!"

"So'm Oi, so'm Oi!" Tom yelped as the both ran off. I sheathed my sword.

The girl who I had been attempting to rescue looked up at me, appearing to be close to fainting herself. "Was it... sharp?" she asked.

"Very," I said.

"Ah," she nodded, then gave in to her fatigue and fainted away. I couldn't leave her there, not knowing whether Fred and Tom would return or not. And I had no way of knowing where she lived. So though it was against my better judgement, I picked both her and her flute up and carried her off to my flat.


	3. Morning After

Disclaimer: I am still not under the illusion that I own any parts of The Phantom of the Opera. Rest assured, Andrew Lloyd Webber. Oh, and thanks to my sister for all the help with the French!

I carried her to my flat and lay her in my bed. Ever the gentleman, just as I was to Christine. Nothing will ever come of it. I might sleep on the sofa a hundred nights a year for no reason.

When I awoke I saw her still in my bed, curled up into the smallest ball possible. It's all right, I thought. You're safe. I began to make blintzes for breakfast, waiting for her to awake.

She did, eventually. "_Mon dieu," _she said. "This isn't my alleyway."

"You sleep in an alleyway?" I asked her.

_"Oui, monsieur."_

_"Pourquoi?"_

"I left home," she answered. "The only money I make is from playing my flute on the streets."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"You couldn't know what that life is like, monsieur. To always have people looking at you like you're some pathetic freak, whispering that you should just get a job... and then not even giving any money so maybe I could get off the streets. So there's no way you could really get that..."

"Sure I could," I said. "I was a circus sideshow freak until I was eight." _Why did I tell her that? _I asked myself inwardly. _Nobody except Antoinette has _ever_ known that_.

"How could _you_ be a circus freak?" she asked me.

"Don't you see my face?" I asked, looming over her.

"_Oui_... but you couldn't help that, monsieur."

"Do you really think a bunch of money-crazed Gypsies cared about that?" I snarled. "They were so superstitious anyway, they probably thought I was some sort of demon from hell. They called me the devil's child."

"I'm so sorry," she said. "I could never have taken that."

"You'll never have to," I told her bitterly. "Only the ugly have to know that sort of pain."

She stared at me. "You're not, you know," she said.

"Not what?"

"Really ugly. I mean, one side of your face is perfect, and the other side... it's not repulsive, you know. Monsieur. What's your name, anyway?"

"Erik," I replied. "And you're very flattering, mademoiselle."

"It's the truth," she said. "And the name's Bianca, by the way. Nobody ever calls me 'mademoiselle.'"

I laughed. "You're not Italian, are you?" I asked her. I didn't want to think of my infractions against Carlotta the way I thought of my infractions against Christine, Raoul, and Buquet.

"_Francoise_," she said. "My mother loved Italy. You don't, I take it?"

"I've known some fairly annoying Italians," I said. _Not just Carlotta. Piangi too_.

"Ah," she said. "I see, _Erik_."

"Interesting way you say my name, Bianca. Do you not like it?"

"I don't think that matters. I was just wondering... have you ever killed anyone?"

"Yes," I said. "Two people. A gypsy at the circus. And... someone else."

"A lady?"

I laughed. "Far from it. A lewd, hairy old man."

"Sounds like one of my attackers from last night."

"Almost. But he was French."

"Ah," she said. We sat in silence for a while as she ate. When she finished, I stood up.

"I'll see you out, then," she said.

"Just like that?" she asked. "Whenever I've been 'rescued' before, my rescuer has always wanted something from me."

"I have everything I need," I said. "You have nothing. What could you give me?"

"Well, they usually want my body," she said.

"I'm not one of those men, Bianca. You obviously have no true interest in me, so I will allow you to resume your ordinary life."

"And what if they come back, Erik? My attackers?"

"They're Londoners," I said. "And I've already scared them enough, I think."

"So you're just going to disappear, then? I'll never see the kindest rescuer I've ever had again? _Mon dieu_, Erik, that seems a bit harsh."

"You _want_ to see me?" I asked as she got up and went to the door.

"Yes," she said. "I _will_ see you."

I shook my head after she had left. As interesting as she was, it would be far too much trouble to befriend her.


	4. Lawyerly Advice

Disclaimer: Once again, not delusional. I know my name is not Gaston Leroux or Andrew Lloyd Webber. I know Erik is not my creation. However, Bianca is, the Fromages are, and so is Monsieur Sacrois. Once again, thanks to my sister for help with the Franzözeich, especially for the helpful tip of: "Fromage means cheese!"

I didn't know much about my neighbours. I sometimes heard the family to my right yelling at each other. Their surname was Fromage, and they consisted of a lazy man who liked wine a bit too much; his stout, nosy wife; and their plain teenage daughter, Elsa. Madame Fromage paid me a lot of attention for the first few weeks after I moved into their building, but took to ignoring me after seeing that not only was I disfigured, but I was heir to nothing and had no promising career.

To my left was a man named Monsieur Sacrois, who I had never seen once. My theory was that he kept odd hours-- perhaps as a vampire. I had heard Madame Fromage mention him more than once to poor Elsa. He had apparently become rich in some way, and so was now the ideal choice for Elsa's husband.

After seeing Bianca off, though, I left the flat myself, and stepped into the hallway just as another man did. He had light brown hair, long legs, and broad, muscular shoulders. All in all a very healthy looking man. _ Sacrois_, I thought. _Madame Fromage probably prays that any children he and Elsa hypothetically produce resemble him exactly_. He was humming a tune that I didn't recognize, but he stopped abruptly when he saw me.

"Nasty dog bites there," he said. "You should think of getting a lawyer."

It took me a moment to realize what he was referring to, but when I did, I let out a hollow laugh and snarled at him: "I was born this way, monsieur."

"Ah," he said, obviously flummoxed. "Then I'm sorry. But-- if you ever _need _a lawyer, then I'm the one to go to."

"You're a lawyer?" I asked in disbelief.

"_Oui, monsieur_," he said. "Marc Sacrois."

I laughed. "You don't act like most lawyers."

"Then the lawyers you know have no sense of fun."

"I don't know any personally," I said. "I've only read. I tend to keep to myself."

"I've noticed," he said. "And I don't blame you, living next to that Fromage woman."

"You don't like Madame Fromage?" I asked as we walked out of the building.

"_Non_," he said. "She's constantly throwing that poor daughter of hers at me."

"Well, what's wrong with Elsa?" I asked. _ If he says it's because she's not beautiful, I'll kill him, _I thought. _ Being hideous my entire life has made plainness appealing_.

"Nothing," he said. "She's a charming girl, really. But she always seems so... dead. Like she'll agree with her mother on just about anything. She'd make a much better wife if she'd stand up to the old hen sometimes."

"I see," I said. We walked out onto the street. "So you'd marry her?"

"Oh, of course," he said. "If her mother weren't always in the way."

I nodded. Madame Fromage was an idiot, then. We passed by Bianca, and I nodded to her in recognition. She smiled back at me, completely messing up her playing.

"Who's _she_?" Marc asked me.

"Bianca," I replied. "I just met her yesterday. But she thinks we're friends."

"Well, I'd let her think that, if I were you," Marc advised. "She is...wow."

"I don't let myself get caught up in that anymore, Marc," I told him.

"_Pardon moi, monsieur_- you're calling me by my first name just like that?"

"_Oui_," I said. "I don't see why not."

"Fine then," he said. "I don't really mind. But what is your name, then?"

"Erik," I said.

"It suits you," he replied. "And Bianca-- Erik, you shouldn't worry about whatever you're worrying about now. Just talk to her."

"I don't care for her in that way," I protested.

He shook his head. "I've tried to deny that sort of thing too," he said. "It never works."

"I'll handle my own life," I snarled. "When you've been through what I've been through, then you can-- Marc, what are you doing?"

He was dancing on the sidewalk was what he was doing. "I can't stop it, Erik," he said. "Neither can you. You have to go get what you want. And I can see what that is already. It's been nice meeting you. But I have to go to work. And you have to go to-- Bianca. Don't lock yourself inside anymore, Monsieur!"

As he continued dancing off toward the courthouse, I shook my head and thought: _At least I'm getting out more now._


	5. Once Again, With the Music

Disclaimer: Once again, Erik and other original POTO characters do not belong to me, I'm just borrowing them; any characters not from original POTO _are_ mine. Thanks to all my reviewers, and again thanks to my sister for help with the French.

What choice did I have but to take my lawyer's advice? If that was what Marc Sacrois was truly going to be for me. It was certainly an odd thing, but perhaps he'd come in handy.

So I went over to talk to Bianca. She was deeply focused on her music. It was a song I didn't know, but one so deeply beautiful that I was immediately caught in it. She played her flute in the lower registers for most of the piece, but at the very end she took what I had begun to recognize as the chorus two octaves higher and then allowed it to die away, which only added to its beauty. _Talent, _I thought. _Pure, undiscovered talent. She can play higher than Christine can sing, and if she had been in the opera's orchestra I could have added an entirely new level to _Don Juan.

But why was I thinking this? I didn't worry about music and opera houses anymore. That part of my life was finished. I couldn't go back to it now.

And yet here was a talented musician, sitting right in front of me, who already said she wanted to be my 'friend'. And what of Marc? The singing, dancing lawyer? He must have some sort of talent, if not the sort I wanted. There were some days when I could practically hear my organ begging to be played. What I could do with Bianca's help!

"A franc, monsieur?" she asked, interrupting my thoughts. I tossed a coin into her case. She looked at me more closely.

"_Erik_?" she asked.

"_Oui," _I said. "You're very talented."

"I'm a street musician," I said. "None of us are anything special."

"Except you," I told her.

"How would you know?"

"I just would," I told her. I couldn't tell her the real reason, I couldn't get into my time at the opera house and my obsession with Christine. "I used to compose operas," I said, and left it at that.

"Operas," she repeated, sounding scared. "Not my style. Sorry."

"Why not?" I asked. "An hour ago you wanted to see me again. Now you don't. Why?"

"Because, Erik... I'm trying to work here. Earn some money."

"You could earn more if you worked for me." I knew it was wrong to dangle that in front of her. But now I was desperate.

"_Non, merci_," she said.

"Why, do you fear me?" I asked. "Are you another woman who will hate me for my face?" I could feel the rage building again. _Damn you... you little prying Pandora... you little demon, this is what you wanted to see... curse you, you little lying Delilah... now you cannot ever be free...damn you... curse you..._If there were ever any words I would have liked to take back, those are the ones. My bad temper, the thing that made Christine hate me when all I ever wanted was to love her. And maybe I had a chance then, before that outburst. I would not say these same words to Bianca. I would not have her run.

"No," she said, trembling. "But- Erik, come closer." I did. "There's a man."

"Your man?" I asked her.

"I have no man, not in that way. He's the kingpin of the streets. He calls himself Jemeau. He gets almost all of the money I earn this way. I can't escape because he runs everything on the streets. Drug dealers. Prostitution rings. Other musicians. He'll send his more loyal followers after me and they'll kill anyone who tries to protect me. They could be watching right now."

"Bianca, you say he gets almost all the money you make. How much does he leave you?"

"Enough for food. I've tried to save some, but I have to eat, Erik."

"So you can't get off of the streets."

"Are you crazy? Jemeau would burn down any building I tried to live in."

"You can't live this life forever, Bianca. What will you do when you're old?"

"I don't know what I'll do _tomorrow_, screw when I'm old."

"Then you need to get out of this life. Come to my apartment. I'm strong, I can protect you."

"You can protect me from burning buildings and hit men?"

"Yes," I said. "I've survived fires before, and I know a bit about them myself. And if I die... there is someone else."

"Who?"

"My lawyer, Marc Sacrois."

Her eyes bulged. "Sacrois?" she asked.

"Oui..." I said, not sure what she was trying to say.

"He's your lawyer? Erik, he's famous!"

"He is?"

"Yes! He was raised in a hovel on the left bank, got scholarships to the best boarding schools and universities, now he's a lawyer. Never lost a case. Everyone on the streets knows his name. Some people think he's the only one who can end Jemeau's reign of terror. How do you know him?"

"He lives in my building, but I never knew he was famous."

"You must have had your head under a rock your whole life, Erik," she said dismissively. "Yes, I'll come with you, I _have_ to meet him!"

"Then you will," I said, calmly and a bit sadly. Marc had been right-- I was attracted. The only problem was that once again, a woman favoured someone else over me.


	6. The Mystery of the Name

Disclaimer- Once again, I do not own any original Phantom characters. I don't know how far back Erik's life has ever been explained before, but this is my take on it. I do know that it's decidedly different from Laroux's book, but it fits with the movie fairly well. And yes, I realize that 'LaNez' is one of the weirdest names ever, but if you'll read my other fanfic, you will see at some point what an inside joke it is. Without further adieu...

Bianca has been with me for almost two weeks now. Her presence has taken some getting used to (I am no longer comfortable walking through my flat shirtless, for example) but for the most part things have been pleasant. I introduced her to Marc, but he seems thoroughly uninterested in her. Oh, he's friendly enough, that's his way, but he refuses to flirt. I see him sometimes in front of the door to Elsa's flat, just waiting. I can tell that this behaviour hurts Bianca, but I can do nothing, nor do I even want to. Anybody can feel heartbreak and longing. She at least has the beauty with which to someday find love.

One morning she met me at breakfast and asked something quite interesting: "What's your last name, Erik?"

I nearly choked on my croissant. "I don't know," I answered.

"You went all this time with no name?" she asked. I nodded and she continued: "Even I know mine, and I had no use for it on the streets."

"Did you know your parents, Bianca?"

"_Oui," _she said. "They died in a fire when I was six."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said.

"I have my memories, though," she said. "Maman taught me how to play the flute. Pere taught me how to throw a punch. It was very useful when they were gone."

"And their names were?"

"Philippe and Blanche LaNez."

"Your last name is LaNez?" I asked, barely containing my laughter.

"_Oui_," she said, shrugging. "I don't understand it either."

"Well, I did not have the luck you did, Bianca. I grew up with a bunch of travelling gypsies, none of whom were my parents. Most them treated me terribly, but there was one, an old fortune-teller, Madame Ufana, who treated me kindly. She was the one who had first brought me into the caravan."

"And?"

"And what?" I asked.

"Did she ever know anything about your parents?"

"She told me that my mother left me with the gypsies just as she was dying."

"That's awful," she said. "And you never knew your name?"

"Erik was supposedly the name my mother had given to me, but my last name- never."

She shook her head. "We could try to find out," she said. "There are records, I'm sure."

"Of what?" I asked.

"Births, deaths."

"Among the _Gypsies_?"

"But your mother probably wasn't a Gypsy," she said thoughtfully, "so there's a better chance that something will be there."

"Hey, Bianca?" I asked. "Why do you care so much?" The fact that she did was incredible attractive to me.

"Why wouldn't I?" she asked, her eyes meeting mine. "You've been so good to me."

"Oh," I said. I didn't know what to say other than that. All of what she had just said had been said so seductively and I didn't know how to react. Could I trust that sort of voice? Could anyone? I remembered Christine's voice of passion, the voice that was all a lie... _"I have come here, hardly knowing the reason why, in my mind I've already imagined our bodies entwining defenceless and silent, now I am here with you, no second thoughts, I've decided, decided..." _I remembered how that fake seduction ruined me-- when Bianca used this voice, could it really be sincere? Could she really care?

"Where could we find such records?" I asked her, feeling short of breath.

"Marc might know," she said hopefully.

"Of _course," _I said, coldly, quietly, bringing our conversation to a halt. _You were right, Erik, _I thought as I walked back to my bedroom. Never _trust a seduction voice._

Note: LaNezthe nose


	7. In the Way

Disclaimer: I still don't own Erik or any other Phantom characters. I do own Marc Sacrois, Bianca LaNez, and Elsa Fromage, as well as anyone else who is not from the original play.

The news I read in the paper today is amazing. A Bavarian dowager duchess is looking for a baby-- the baby of her former _maid_-- to make him one of her heirs. Why is a noble doing such a kind thing? I've never heard of it before.

"There are nice nobles, I'm sure," Bianca tells me when I inform her of my shock.

"Just not in France," I reply.

"Why do you dislike the nobility so much anyway?" she asks. "You're a composer, don't most composers look for _patrons_ to support them?"

"I never will," I said darkly.

"Why? You could make some money that way."

"I have my ways already," I said. "I don't need nobles who just sit around and do nothing but complain." _And steal girls right out from under their tutors' misshapen noses, _I thought bitterly. I then stalked off to the sitting room and began playing the organ, another of my own compositions.

After about ten minutes, Bianca joined me with her flute. I could tell she had been crying, but she still played well.

"Why do you get so angry with me?" she asked. "What did I do?"

"I don't like to talk about my past, Bianca," I said. "You know that."

"Why not?" she asked. "Look at everything you know about me, Erik."

"Your past is not nearly as painful," I said.

She stood over me, her face red with anger. "What the fuck do you mean?" she yelled into my face. "My know my parents died! You know about Jemeau, about all the men who have tried to get me into their beds-- and you say I can talk about it because it's not _painful_? Because it's _trivial_? Erik, what is _wrong _with you?"

I couldn't bear to see her hurt anymore. "Fine," I said. "You want to know, I'll tell you. I was treated as a sideshow freak as a child. You know that already. But do you know the terrible pain that comes from having things thrown at you every night while you are whipped by a man four times your size? I'd be wearing a sack on my head, and when he'd pull it off, then it would start… Rotten vegetables, trash, and words, all those _words _about how ugly and stupid I was…"

"How did you escape?" she asked.

"A girl took pity on me. I was eight. She was thirteen. Her name was Antoinette. She stayed after the _show_ was done, still watching me. That was my most brutal beating ever. I couldn't take it anymore, so I strangled the man with his own whip, killing him. Then Antoinette took me to a safe place… where I stayed for years, composing. With only her occasional visits… other than that, I was all alone." I shook my head. That was as deep as I would go. I couldn't mention Christine.

"I'm sorry, Erik," she said.

"You couldn't have known," I told her. "No one could have."

"Erik?" she asked, cautiously.

"Yes?"

"Why did you leave your safe place?"

"I was chased out," I said. "Nobody wants an ugly man living in their dungeons."

"And you came here?"

"_Oui_."

She put her arms around me. A friend. How long had it been since I had had a real friend? My entire life, perhaps? Did Antoinette count? Did Christine? I did not know, but here was Bianca in my apartment, embracing me as I had never been embraced before.

We stayed like that for quite a while, until I heard whistling. Marc Sacrois was standing in my kitchen.

"How did you get in?" I asked him.

"Door was open," he said. "Wasn't hard from there. Sorry if I interrupted anything-"

Bianca shot up from her seat immediately, saying: "Oh no, Marc, Erik and I were just talking-"

Marc nodded slyly. "You know, I talk to many people on an ordinary day-- other lawyers, judges, clients, my secretary Caroline- yet for some reason I never see fit to openly hug them. Just something you should think about." He winked at me.

"Why are you here, Marc?" I asked him, exasperated. "And why are you dressed like that?" For the first time I had noticed that he was in fact wearing a dress coat and a top hat, quite different from the usual suit and tie that he wore to work.

"Oh, just wanted to stop by and say hello to my good friends Erik and Bianca before meeting Elsa," he said.

"Meeting Elsa?" I asked.

"What do you mean by that?" Bianca asked nervously.

"We are going to dinner at Le Pied de Cochon," he said, naming a fancy restaurant near Montemartre. "Much to Madame Fromage's delight." He pulled his watch from his pocket to check the time. "_Sacre bleu_," he said. "I must hurry!" He ran out, nearly tripping over the rug in the entrance hall.

"What does he see in her?" Bianca asked me.

"Elsa? She's really nice," I said.

"She's not beautiful at all, though, and her mother is absolutely insane."

"What do you mean, not beautiful?" I asked. "Why do you judge?"

"Because I can see."

"So you base everything upon outward appearances, then, Bianca? Let me tell you something. When I met you, you looked like complete street trash. Now you're… not." I let the tenderness creep into my voice. "Back then you also seemed able to see beyond exteriors," I said, pointing to my face, "and now you cannot."

"Erik, this was never about you--"

"I am without a doubt one of the ugliest men alive, Bianca!" I screamed. "How can it not in some way be about me when you speak of Elsa's 'non-beauty?'"

"Because you're not getting in the way of me and Marc!" she screamed back. "You never will!"

I grabbed her then and kissed her on the lips, my ugly face smashed up next to her beautiful one. "There," I said, "how's that for getting in the way, Bianca? Now you see why your words hurt?"

She took a step back. "I need to think," she said as she rushed back to the bedroom.

I prepared dinner in silence, waiting for her, but she never came.


End file.
